by Bridie Clark
“Hey, Lulu!” I whispered.
“Oh, hello,” Lulu said coldly. Then she folded into a front bend, resting her forehead between her knees on the mat. For a rigid, uptight girl with a pole up her butt, she was shockingly limber.
“Please come to a comfortable seated position at the front of your mat,” said the instructor.
As class stretched on, Lulu executed each pose with flawless form. I noticed a subtle sheen on her brow, but nary a drop of sweat fell to the ground.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to restrain myself from grunting like Maria Sharapova and turning my sticky mat into a small slip ’n slide of sweat. By minute twenty, every time I downward dogged, my hands and feet slid around as if they were on roller skates. My hair was dripping wet. My T-shirt and shorts looked as if they’d been left on a clothesline during a heavy rainstorm. When class was finally over, I mopped my brow with the square inch of my T-shirt that hadn’t been saturated. Even Bea had to raise an eyebrow.
I rolled up my mat and turned to Lulu, determined once and for all to make nice. We’d just spent a good chunk of time aligning our chakras, so maybe she’d be more receptive. “You’re really good, Lulu,” I said, “I’m impressed. Have you been doing yoga for a long time?”
Lulu didn’t say anything, and for a moment I wondered if my words would just hang in the air as they had in the elevator. She stared at me. Then she deigned to speak, flinging her words at me as if they disgusted her as much as I did. “One doesn’t ‘do’ yoga, Claire, one ‘practices’ yoga. And not everything is a competition, you know,” she snapped, pulling the strap of her bag onto her shoulder. Then she headed for the door.
So much for making nice.
“Hey, babe. Just landed. Any chance you can meet me at my apartment in an hour?” Randall asked.
“Of course!” I answered quickly, figuring Bea would give me a pass on dinner. I did the math: I could run back to my apartment (fifteen minutes), shower quickly (five minutes), get dressed (fifteen, since it was to see Randall and thus would require an extra four minutes to scrounge for matching undergarments), and head straight up to his place (twenty minutes). I hadn’t seen him in a few days—he’d been working on some big deal in Tokyo, and it had been difficult even to connect on the phone. Fortunately, I’d been so swamped with work that I hadn’t had time to mope too much over his absence.
“Was that Randall?” Bea asked when I’d hung up the phone.
“Uh-huh.” I nodded.
“And could tonight be the night?” she asked.
The thought hadn’t crossed my mind, but now that she mentioned it … Randall and I had been dating over a month, seeing each other a few times a week … I’d heard him refer to me as his girlfriend on the phone with a work colleague… . And I was head over heels for the guy.
“Actually, yes.” I smiled. “Tonight very well could be the night.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
LOVE IN THE TIME OF CHOLERA
Claire?” David knocked on my door. I’d been huddled over a manuscript for a four-hour stretch, and my back felt solidly fused into a curve. “Someone’s in the lobby to see you. His name’s Luke?”
Luke Mayville? I told David to bring him up.
“And Bea’s on line one. Again.”
“Hey,” I said quietly, picking up the phone. It was the third time she’d called that morning.
“So?” Bea demanded hungrily.
“Yup, last night was the night,” I answered. I didn’t feel like discussing it, analyzing it, or, frankly, even thinking about it. Because I was busy with work and a day packed with meetings. And because, unfortunately, I’d had sneezes that lasted longer. I wasn’t worried: Randall and I just needed some time. First times were supposed to be a little disappointing. It was practically a rule. Still, I didn’t feel like rehashing the experience with anyone, even Beatrice.
Luke poked his head into my office. When he saw I was on the phone, he quickly backed out again.
“Can I call you back?” I asked Bea. “I’ve got someone waiting… .”
“Fine,” she said, clearly let down that she wouldn’t be getting a detailed version of last night’s events. “By the way, Harry and I just booked our tickets to Iowa. I’ll e-mail you our itinerary. I know we’ve still got plenty of time … but you know how hot Iowa is as a mid-January destination.”
“Right up there with St. Barth’s, I know. Mom will be so thrilled you guys are coming. I was thinking I might ask Randall, but it’s still ages away—”
“You definitely should. Okay, don’t forget to call me back.”
I stepped out in the hallway to look for Luke. He was studying bookshelves that held at least one copy of every Grant book published for the past decade.
“You guys have some really terrific authors!” he commented somewhat incredulously, as people generally did when they realized that Grant Books’ list wasn’t entirely porn, pulp, and politics. “Hey, am I interrupting you at a bad time? Sorry to just drop by unannounced.”
“Are you kidding? You can always stop by.” With Jackson already settled into retired life in Virginia, Luke was my only hope for a Mayville fix. The family resemblance was strong, although it had little to do with looks. Luke was a few inches shorter than Jackson, who was a lanky six feet five, and his features were sharper and darker. But there was something similar about the way that both Mayville men carried themselves.
I had to admit, Luke was looking pretty cute today in a faded T-shirt and cargo pants—at least it was a definite improvement on the sandwich board and pacifier. Hmm. I’d have to brainstorm a great girl to set him up with, provided he was single. Now that I’d found Randall, I wanted the whole world to fall in love. Maybe Mara? She’d had a rough streak lately, and it’d be great to introduce her to a guy like Luke.
“Well, thanks. I really am sorry to barge in on your day like this,” he apologized. And then he held a big stack of papers over his head like a heavyweight champ. The bags under his eyes … the relieved expression … .
“This must be the magnum opus!” I exclaimed. “Is it done?”
Luke laughed, plopping down in my guest chair and stretching out his long legs. “Well, sort of. I can’t even tell at this point. But you’ll love it if you’re having trouble sleeping.”
“Yeah?” I laughed. “Speaking of, when’s the last time you’ve slept?”
“Don’t be fooled.” Luke rubbed his eyes a little. “I’m actually very well rested. But I do everything possible to cover that up when visiting publishers. Gotta look the part of ink-stained, chain-smoking, pallid, starving, death-warmed-over wretch if you want to be taken seriously as a writer in this town.”
“Sure. Or dress up like a grown-up baby?” I was unable to control a tiny snort of laughter at the memory.
“Precisely.” He nodded seriously. “Either look is pretty much guaranteed to impress.”
Then, without further ado, he handed me his manuscript. It felt heavy in my hands. “It’s still very rough,” he explained. “It needs a lot more work. The ending’s rushed, the plot’s slow, and I can’t think of a title to save my life. So, I mean, don’t worry if you don’t have time to—”
“Luke,” I interrupted, and he took a deep breath, “I’d love to read it. Thank you.”
I’ve always imagined that for a writer, this moment would be comparable to the feeling of dropping one’s child off at school for the first time—proud, expectant, but also fearful that he or she will be judged, picked on, or simply ignored. Not prolonging that agony a second longer than necessary was one of my main priorities as an editor.
I could tell Luke had more than the average dose of separation anxiety, so I promised myself that I wouldn’t let his manuscript gather so much as a speck of dust. No matter how much work I had ahead of me, I’d find the time to read a chapter or two right away. I was genuinely curious to read it; Jackson had always bragged about how smart his nephew was. After opening up the first page, I glanced at the
first few lines—and then looked up, suddenly aware that I must have been making Luke more nervous by reading in front of him.
“So, I figure I should probably celebrate,” he declared, breaking the momentary silence. “Just the fact that it’s finished, I mean. Who knows if I’ll be able to sell the thing, of course. Unless you’re willing to make an offer based on the unadulterated brilliance of the first sentence… .”
“I’ll think about that. You definitely should celebrate, though. It’s a major milestone.”
“Any chance you feel like having dinner with me tonight? Lately I’ve become addicted to this great little Italian spot in the West Village called Mimi’s, it’s—”
“I love Mimi’s!” I blurted out, shocked that anyone else would be acquainted with the hole-in-the-wall, charming mom-and-pop restaurant that had served as my own private kitchen for the past few years. Their buttery pasta with zucchini and squash was the stuff of dreams, and their gnocchi … I could honestly drool just thinking about their gnocchi.
“Great! How’s eight o’clock?” Luke asked, seeming to take my previous declaration as a yes. I didn’t correct him. It wasn’t as if he were asking me out on a date, after all. We were friends. Or maybe not quite friends yet—but we had Jackson in common. And Luke was probably trying to butter me up before I read his novel.
Besides, now that the thought of Mimi’s had been planted in my head, there was no turning back. After six weeks of being so busy that I was lucky to get down one solid meal a day, the prospect of a Mimi’s feast sounded like pure heaven. And Randall would be stuck working late, anyway—so it wasn’t like I was missing out on a chance to spend time with him.
My phone rang, and Vivian’s extension flashed on the caller ID. “The boss,” I apologized to Luke. “Eight o’clock sounds perfect.”
“See you tonight, Claire,” Luke said, waving and ducking out the door.
“She hasn’t returned my calls in three weeks, Claire. My client has no idea what’s going on! I can’t get her or Graham to pick up the goddamn phone.” Derek Hillman, a bottom-feeding L.A. agent who represented porn queen Mindi Murray, sounded distraught. Normally he just sounded pissed and pushy—things were starting to escalate.
The issue at hand: Mindi had turned in a proposal for her second book more than a month ago—a steamy how-to guide for women who wanted to lure the men in their lives off their porn addiction and back into bed—but for some reason, despite Vivian’s expressed interest, plus a dozen messages and e-mails, I could not get my boss to commit to an offer. I’d thrown Derek every excuse in my arsenal, but I couldn’t hold him at bay much longer.
“Well, Derek,” I began, “we’re just figuring out our P and L and what we—”
“Okay, bullshit. I’ve done twenty books with Vivian, sweetheart, and I know she doesn’t need to see any P and L to decide how much she wants to offer. What’s her problem? Is she in the office today? At this point, I’m about to sic Harold on her. Tell her that, will you? Maybe Harold should negotiate this contract.” Harold Kramer, a cutthroat lawyer who could sue the sweat off a racehorse, was high on Vivian’s most-loathed list. Without question, she would not want him to get involved.
“Just hold on, Derek, I’ll get an answer from her by the end of the week. She’s coming back from L.A.”
“Vivian’s in L.A.? Why, I had no idea! Normally I can sort of tell when she’s in town … a pentagram forms in the sky, blood weeps down walls. Listen, sweetheart, I need to know what’s happening by the end of the day, or we’re going elsewhere. Enough is enough.”
“Derek, I’ll do my best. I’m sorry, it’s just—”
“Been unusually busy. I know. Skip the apologies, skip the excuses. Just call me back today with an offer.” He crashed the phone down on my ear.
“How’re you doing, kid?” asked Phil, materializing in my doorway. He had about twenty files stacked in his arms. “You coming?”
“Coming where?” I asked, feeling immediate alarm. Had I forgotten about a meeting?
“The sales meeting, of course. Don’t you have, like, a dozen books on the spring list?”
I could hear blood pulsing in my ears. The marketing meeting—the one chance we editors had to present and promote our titles to the entire sales team—was scheduled for next week. “I think you’ve got the wrong date, Phil,” I said, trying to remain calm. “That meeting’s not until next Wednesday.”
Phil just stared at me. His face blotched up as if he’d been playing football in subzero weather. “She wouldn’t have—I can’t believe—Claire, Lulu sent out a staff e-mail on Monday saying that the meeting had been moved a week earlier. It’s taking place today, in about ten minutes! We’ve all been scrambling to get our pitches squared away! Are you sure you didn’t get that e-mail from her?”
With trembling fingers, I scrolled down in my Outlook. I hadn’t received anything from Lulu in the past week. “Is it actually possible that Lulu e-mailed everyone but me?” I asked, not wanting to believe she could be that evil.
“I didn’t get anything, either,” piped up David from behind Phil.
Bitch.
But I didn’t have time to feel enraged. Or calculate my revenge.
“Exactly how many minutes do I have?” I shouted at Phil, lurching for my filing cabinet and pulling out manila folders. Twelve books. Twelve books I needed to compellingly position and pitch to our sales team—so they could determine how to position and pitch to our major accounts. My first sales meeting at Grant Books—arguably the most important meeting on the calendar all season—and Lulu had completely sabotaged me!
The last-minute notice wasn’t the only reason I felt panicked. I was petrified of speaking in public; I always got nervous and tongue-tied. My only hope had been tons of preparation—I’d planned on spending the entire weekend going over my notes—and now that was shot.
“I’ll bat first and talk slowly, to buy you a few extra minutes,” said Phil, still stunned. “I’d say you’ve got fifteen. Honestly, though, I wouldn’t push it past that.”
I glanced at David, my wingman, who’d rushed over to the filing cabinet to help. “You take the top six,” I commanded, pointing to the list he’d pulled out, “and I’ll take the bottom. Three talking points on each book. We’ll keep it simple, straightforward.” David nodded and went to work. We both scribbled notes and assembled materials in frenzied silence.
“Two minutes left,” David said, checking his watch. “I’m done with mine.”
“Me too. I’ll review in the elevator. Let’s go!”
We sprinted for the elevator bank and hit the button for the third floor. I ran my eyes over the notes as the elevator plummeted.
“Where’s the conference room?” I panted, looking both ways at the intersection of two hallways.
“Hang a left—” David pointed toward double doors about forty feet away. I sprinted toward them, heaved them open, and—
“Claire!” Graham exclaimed, looking up from one end of an enormous conference table that was crammed with people. The entire editorial staff of Grant Books—save for Vivian, who was in L.A.—was seated along one edge. I spotted an empty seat next to Phil and glared at smug Lulu, who sat with an expression of wide-eyed innocence.
I’d kill her later. Right now, there was a job to be done.
“Everyone, please meet our newest editor, Claire Truman,” said Graham. “Claire, you’re just in time to tell everyone about the twelve books you have on your list for spring.”
I sat down and pulled out my index cards. And that’s when it hit me: I didn’t feel nervous. Somehow, the panic of the last fifteen minutes, the adrenaline coursing through my veins, and the mad dash down the hallway had magically cured my usual fear of public speaking. As I launched into my first title, I felt more relaxed, confident, and articulate than I ever had before in front of a crowd. David’s notes were right on target, and I was able to answer all the reps’ questions.
When I’d finished, I looked at Lulu.
She had her arms crossed across her skeletal body, and her face had tightened into a nasty little pout. I could tell she was fuming.
“You did good, kid,” said Phil, throwing his arm around me as we all headed back up to the twelfth floor.
“Thanks to David,” I said as the staff piled into the elevator. “Lulu, I didn’t seem to get that e-mail about the scheduling change. Do you know why I wasn’t on the list?”
“You weren’t on the list?” she answered, not turning to face me. “Maybe I need to update it.”
“What a beautiful, heartfelt apology, Lulu,” Phil said as we stepped off on twelve. “You know, if Claire and David hadn’t exhibited such grace under pressure, you could have really done some damage to a dozen books on our list. I wonder how Vivian would feel about that.”
Lulu whipped her head around, fear in her eyes.
“Check your staff e-mail list,” I said to her, veering off toward my office. I’d watch my back from now on, but my anger had mostly dissipated. Phil was right: I had done good.
“Claire!” Mimi barreled across the floor of the tiny restaurant to envelop me in a hug. “Look at you! Skin and bones, my bella! Why you’re so thin?” Then she turned to face Luke and pinched his cheek hard. I could tell it hurt, but he smiled bravely through the pain. “My two favorite customers, in here together! Ah, Mimi is so happy!” she clucked, showing us to our table.
The decor at Mimi’s was a complete cliché—red-checkered tablecloths, candles dripping over the sides of old wine bottles, soft Sinatra playing in the background—but no restaurant in New York could compete with the experience of being greeted by Mimi herself at the door. A cannoli away from two hundred pounds, Mimi instantly made you feel like part of la famiglia.
Luke gave me a shy smile as we sat down. He was wearing a soft-looking oxford, and his dark hair was tussled just a little.